Page 9 of Worth the Wait

“Was Petey a problem child?” He glances at me when we come to a stop sign, and I can’t help cracking up. “And now you’re Pouting Petey.”

“Does that make you Boohoo Bellamy?”

It goes downhill from there.

Perturbed Petey.

Bratty Bellamy.

Peevish Petey.

Bristly Bellamy.

We have way more fun than the conversation deserves. Yet, as silly as it seems, it’s also an intelligent one as it’s testing our vocabulary and wit.

At some point, the adjectives become complimentary.

Patriotic Peter.

Benevolent Bellamy.

Priceless Peter.

Beautiful Bellamy.

Seeing an ice cream stand, Peter asks if I want any and I quickly say yes.

We’re standing in line, holding hands and stealing kisses, when the customer a few ahead of us turns to leave and notices me.

“Ms. Bellamy,” Lisa Green greets me, her gaze taking in my proximity to Peter.

“Hello, Mrs. Green,” I reply, then introduce her to Peter. This isn’t exactly a big city, but it’s not small either.

Being the gentleman he is, he’s polite as we chat, yet his eyes seem to clock the number of times hers drop to our clasped hands.

It’s a lot in a span of five minutes.

Honestly, it makes me uneasy.

When Mrs. Green excuses herself, I rely on my manners and state that I’ll see her soon. Being who she is, it’s fairly common that I see her while I’m at work. In fact, she has a say in who gets hired there since her family’s generational wealth funded the hospital that currently employs me and was there for my initial interview before they’d approve me to take on their contract.

“That was uncomfortable,” he whispers in my ear as he draws me closer. Whether it’s because he notices I feel the same way or simply doesn’t like the distance between us, as minimal as it had been, I’m not sure. Only that I’m thankful for the support his arm around my waist provides, the heat his body is sharing with me at the chill that seems to have taken over.

“You two have never met?”

“No. I grew up a three states away. My parents moved here after I got transferred, hating that hundreds of miles separated us. When mom passed,” he stops, emotions getting to him, “dad didn’t want to be far from the only family he had left, so he stayed. The guys look to him as a father figure.”

“And he loves it.”

“He does. He loves to feel useful.”

“Don’t we all?”

We’re at the window as I finish my question and we give our orders, having decided on our flavors during the time we were waiting. After one taste, I know I’ll be returning.

Frequently.

“Good, isn’t it?”

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